Alexander the Fidgety

Nick and his mum and I were out looking at laptops on Saturday when I started having regular and powerful contractions.

I called the midwife and she told me to head to the hospital.

Just that morning I had an ultrasound of the baby because the midwife thought I was a bit big for 33 weeks of pregnancy.

The result was the image of a full cheeked healthy baby who had all his important parts working the way they should.

But there I was, later that day, plunked into the maternity ward and strapped up to a fetal heart monitor.

To my left was a giant window overlooking Hagley Park in the fleeting winter light and beyond that were cranes and empty buildings that told the story of the slow Christchurch rebuild.

I felt excited because this pregnancy has gotten to the miserable phase most pregnancies do and I was ready for it to end.

Why shouldn't baby Alex come now if he really wanted to?

I'm an indulgent mother I suppose.

I was trying to mentally prepare myself for the coming struggle and the word epidural hung on my lips.

The midwife arrived looking flustered (she's pregnant too) and I asked to make sure she was feeling okay.

The doctor on duty appeared to be a young Indian Fijian and I liked him immediately.

I was poked prodded and tested and tested positive for fetal fibronectin- a substance that apparently causes the placenta to come "unglued" from the uterus.

Preterm labor seemed imminent and I was told I would be spending the weekend under observation.

And so followed a sleepless night in the baking hot maternity ward (it's kept warm for the babies).

I received two shots of steroids and pills at eight hour intervals to stop my contractions.

I was given a list of ills that could befall the baby if he came too soon and I felt guilty for having been glad he was on the way.

My blood pressure was always good and the baby was moving with his usual gusto.

All the nurses and doctors and midwives were very kind but I hated being in that hospital all the same.

I wanted to get out and run away. I wanted to go home and do laundry. I wanted to fuss over my lovebirds and water my plants. Anything except the pseudo prison experience of a hospital stay.

People are there to look after you but you cannot exercise your free will and leave.

It drives me crazy and makes a thousand little things feel like the end of the world.

When Nick and his mum left the first night I felt sad and lonely and wanted to cry.

I suppose I will never get over the stay I had at a military hospital for depression several years ago. There was hopelessness and despair in abundance and I'm not sure how I survived the pre, actual or post experience there. Many of the patients had given up on wanting to live and at times I felt the same way.

I thought it would be nice to just go home and give birth in the bathtub but if the sprog comes early he will likely need the kind of care that a caring partner, older sister and paternal grandmother are unable to give.

I was released to go home today and was so relieved to get into my own bed.

Nick's mom was kind enough to do our laundry and clean the house and make dinner and I am so grateful for her help that I don't feel I can say thank you enough times.

Every time I get up from the bed I have strong contractions.

I feel like a certain stubborn baby is about to make his way into the world whether or not medical science thinks its in his best interest.

For now I will just lay in my bed and wait.